#war veteran

[sylflare]

Posting this here because I think it’s funny

[yourspeirs]

Rest in Peace

Jim "Pee Wee" Martin was one of the original paratroopers from G Company, 506th PIR, 101st Airborne Division. He passed away yesterday on September 11, 2022. He was born on April 29th 1921 and was 101 years old.

Rest easy.

[robbie556]

I made a gif 😨 (THE QUALITY IS SO BAD)

[the-cricket-chirps]

Vincent van Gogh, The Wounded Veteran, c. 1882-83

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Leon Gautier (October 27, 1922 - July 3, 2023)

[whereismyhat5678]

Thinking…..

It hurts to think……Why does it hurt to do anything?………It just hurts………

[unknownaliias]

Dnd commission I did a while back. The character is a Fairy war veteran, from a war between faries and elves. Due to it though, he's had both his arms blown of, and has gone blind in one eye.

[thebluelagooncompany-567]

[mentallydatingahotcelebrity]

SOBBING 😂😂😂

[queenmayor23]

Fighting the Good Fight

got the idea for this while listening to a book called Whisper by Tal Bauer and watching an episode of True Life that show is fvcking bonkers.

"Hey. I'm home."

The pitter-patter of feet gradually became louder as the five-year-old ran to hug Y/N. Y/N crouched down and embraced the kid in his pajamas, a taller man following behind, fussing in Parsik about how the kid was almost asleep, and now he has to put him down again.

"I'm sorry. I miss you guys. Hey kiddo, the faster you fall asleep, the more time we have tomorrow. So can you go to sleep for your Baba, and tomorrow we can go to the park and get ice cream."

"O-tay." The kid follows the man back into the bedroom.

Y/N walks into the kitchen to warm up food. After eating and taking a shower, Y/N gets in bed; moments later, the man climbs in bed behind Y/N, becoming the big spoon. His arms smoothly grabbed Y/N's waist.

"I know those hands. Those are the "I'm nervous about something" hands, and the last time I felt them was when you told me about the kid. So what's going on, Raqqa?"

The arms grew tighter, trapping Y/N by the waist as small kisses hit Y/N's neck.

"Oh, this is serious."

"Yeah, we'll talk about it later. Rest tonight, my love."

The next day after going to the zoo and a hike through the park Raqqa and Y/N found themselves seated on a weathered wooden bench watching the kid on the playground as the sun dipped below the horizon casting long shadows across the park.

Raqqa exhales, cracking his knuckles and crossing his arms. "I've been watching the war in Ishtar. The rebels need help. They are outgunned and outmanned; if they don't change the tide soon, they could lose the country to dictatorship."

"So what, we're rounding up the troops for support?"

"I volunteered my efforts."

Y/N turned to face Raqqa, but Raqqa kept his eyes trained on the playground before them. "Volunteered efforts? As in "Uncle Sam wants you" or-"

"There will be others. But as far as the government is concerned, no."

Y/N trembled out a breath as he attempted to speak. "So… what does that mean?"

"I'm leaving for Ishtar in two weeks."

A tear fell from Raqqa's eye as he clenched his lips together. Y/N settled a hand on Raqqa's leg, calming him enough to open his mouth again. "You know where the key is for the emergency safe; everything you need is there. You're on the pick-up and emergency list for school; you know the schedule, our routines…"

"Raqqa-"

Out of nervousness, Raqqa begins speaking in Parsik, not noticing the switch. Y/N listens to him ramble until Raqqa turns to Y/N. Raqqa takes Y/N's hands in his. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize, but if you're this nervous about it, maybe you shouldn't go."

Raqqa's gaze dropped to the ground, his eyes flickering with a blend of sorrow and determination. "I know, Y/N. But it is my duty to my homeland, and I can't turn my back on it."

A knot formed in Y/N's stomach, and his voice choked with emotion. "I can't bear the thought of losing you, Raqqa… and telling your kid that Baba isn't coming home. It hurts thinking about it. You have something special here. Why leave it? Is it me? Am I pushing you away? Am I not doing enough? That's why you didn't want me over all week, right?"

Raqqa's fingers reached out, gently brushing against Y/N's face. "Ya omri. You are perfect in every way. I was- am scared to tell you all of this. But seeing you today gave me all the confidence I needed to know that you're the one I want to be here when I return."

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes. "I'm proud of you, Raqqa, but that doesn't make it any easier. Having to worry about every phone call, every knock at the door. It terrifies me."

Raqqa's grip tightened on Y/N's face, his voice quivering with love and pain. "I'll do everything I can to return to you. You and the kid are the reason I fight, a light guiding me through the darkest of nights." Raqqa releases Y/N and digs in his pocket. He pulls out a gold link chain with his dog tags and a Chrome ring with Yellow Gold Inlay, putting it around Y/N's neck.

"I know we talked about not buying engagement rings; that's what the chain is for, but just in case I don't come back-"Raqqa couldn't finish his sentence.

"I do." Y/N said, knowing it could be his only chance to say those two words to the man he truly loved.

"Promise me you'll be as strong as the man I fell in love with and believe in us, in our love, even while I'm far away."

Y/N nodded, tears streaming down his face. "I'll hold onto that promise, Raqqa. I'll be here, waiting for you, praying for your safe return. Just promise me you'll take care of yourself and come back to us."

In the heated moment, Raqqa connected their lips, grabbing the back of Y/N's neck. Their embrace was a mixture of desperation and tenderness. After the initial shock, Y/N deepened the kiss until both were out of breath. It was their first kiss. They clung to one another and found comfort in their newfound intimacy, praying that no matter the future, hoping that their love would be enough to withstand the trials ahead.

[stargazer333]

[moscoviummalt]

How long?

"I should've never signed that paper.

I thought I was serving my country, protecting my 'brothers and sisters'. Huh, what a joke.

I still wake at the crack of dawn, expecting to be rallied out to the grounds.

I still feel the weight of the gun in my cold, empty hands.

I still hear the cries of agony of my comrades.

I still see the light fade from my enemies eyes.

Enemy? What a cruel word. Because in the end, weren't we all humans?

No. No.... we were puppets. Lifeless, pawn like puppets designed to dance to the tune of our cruel puppeteers, thrown away like rag dolls when we were no longer needed.

When will this stop? When will they wake up? The worst is done for now... but it will repeat again and again in a wretched cycle.

So please, please, let this suffering stop. "

[sirathurheit]

Man, you show ONE Clone Trooper and everyone gets all teary-eyed, I swear...

That's... that's me, I'm People.

[builder051]

Adverse Effects (ch.2 if you're a parking meter, what the fuck are "business hours?")

A Chasing Ghosts story

Previously, in ch1:

After a moment of frantic scanning, James’s eyes land on the party in question, and more specifically, on Tasha. Her hair piled up on top of her head, then shot through with blinding light–she may as well be a beacon of molten copper. “Yeah,” James confirms. "I see her." He doesn’t know how he could miss her. But then the Subaru turns off its lights and cuts its engine, and everything outside Steve’s car goes dark again.

__________________________

Acquainted now with their surroundings, James sees Tasha and a number of others enter the club.

"Do you think Tasha and Maria are with that big guy?" James wonders aloud. He'd warned her about athletes. They don't deal, and they won't make deals, unless they're from a pro organization or the Olympic team. Anything else becomes a scandal. Unless you're Tasha, with the looks and the charm and lucky pennies. And the ability to recount the drunken details, heavy on code words and time lapses, to her... what exactly? Trusted adult? A role James is happy to keep filling to keep his sister safe. Hence the mission.

"I don't think so," Steve answers.

"Oh." James forces his mind back to the current conversation. "Do you know him?"

"Uh," Steve hesitates. He puts on his blinker for a moment as he peers down an intersecting alley and squints, looking, James supposes, for parking. "Jim might know his brother, I think?

James reaches across and turns off Steve's flasher. "You'll get your tires slashed if you go down that way."

"Why?" Steve merges back onto the main road.

"I just..." It's that section of neighborhood, the shitty part, built around the time the University District was established. Unlike the suburbs directly off campus, the houses here weren't renovated. Weren't large enough to rent out as flatshares. Owning one was probably a relief, a place to shelter the family. Definitely not someone's pride and joy. With no incentive to clean up, rusty fences separated the houses. People had dogs. Broken down cars. Kids who learned to work and had no concept of play. They'd figure out how to put screaming eagle pipes on an old, rattling moped. And when it was nighttime and they couldn't disturb the neighbors on their mothers' sharp orders, of course they'd find a loophole. Harass somebody else with a pen knife or some spray paint. Use the darkness as an advantage, and don't get caught. Then if the blame comes your way, it's easy enough to deflect. What? You think I did that? Naw, that was Roger. You should probably call his mom.

Luckily, James was a head taller and a shade quieter than that group of foster brothers when they were jammed into a similar establishment upstate. The younger ones took up a lot of attention, racing up and down the street, making a good diversion while James committed minor theft. Yes, he had to use a wrench to remove the tire from the bicycle before running like his life depended on it. Even though the bike in the neighbors' yard had been chained to the fence for something like half a year, and he'd only stolen it to fix his own flat, James remembers feeling a sense of something else behind the anxiety. Something thrilling. When James yanked the rusty nail out of his flat and started loosening the bolts to change his tire, he hoped he wouldn't get tetanus. Or maybe hoped he would. The straight line of healthy obedience was torture compared to what he'd just uncovered. Who knew stealing some stupid bike tire would unveil a whole world of...stuff. Independence. Opportunities. Danger. Things to tell Tasha. Things to warn Tasha.

When the streetlights came on and James chained up his bike out back, he was excited to meet Tasha at the door. She wasn't letting him in, though. They were just passing like ghosts in the wind.

James took in Tasha's short white dress and white Converse sneakers, which looked as if they'd been wiped down with bleach. "Where are you going?"

Tasha shrugged. Gestured vaguely up the street.

"You shouldn't steal shit at night," James warned, whispering between his teeth. "Everybody's dog is going to wake up."

"Why would I steal anything?" Tasha gave James an inquisitive look. "What're you hiding?"

James stood up straight and leaned against the door frame with one arm. He thought maybe it drew attention to the fact that he had the advantage in height, weight, and age. "I asked you first."

"Friend's house," Tasha said simply, though her expression fluctuated from neutral to worried and maybe fearful before taking on the exasperated pout that's clearly meant for James.

Without knowing if she has permission, or where exactly she intends to go, or what bloody fuck she can even have stashed in the miniature sparkly backpack dangling from one skinny elbow... James watches her go until she passes a bank of untrimmed bushes and is lost to the night.

"Is that street haunted?" Steve asks, unknowingly adding to the rising action of the horror movie beginning to unfold in James's head.

"Um." James clears his throat. Now. Come on. The block in his vision doesn't allow him to see far down the street, but he doesn't need to in order to make a judgement call. "If you call 12-year-olds with box cutters ghosts and goblins."

"Oh," Steve says, using the voice he puts on when he's trying not to be surprised by previously unknown differences in lifestyle. "Yeah, that wouldn't be good."

Traffic moves, and they pass the club where Tasha had entered with Maria and some bunch of unknowns. Street parking is packed with cars nose-to-tail, some more neatly than others, who have left a tire or two in the lane.

"I'm pretty sure there's more street parking on the side." James points one storefront ahead to the closed Italian restaurant, which makes up the corner of block."

"Yeah, I'll try that..." Steve glances over his shoulder, then out James's side mirror. "How do people even get here?"

"Maybe the hike around all the detours is sobering?" James puts out there.

"I don't know..."

Steve creeps up on the car in front and puts on his blinker. He's impatient, James knows.

"So... That one guy you saw in the line with Tash and Maria?" James pulls from the back of his mind. "You know him?"

"Well," Steve replies, "I don't know him, exactly, but Jim's sort of friends with his brother, so I, like, know who he is?"

"Ok." James will take it. "And he is...?"

"The-the guy?" It's finally Steve's turn to pause at the flashing red light, then take the turn around the side of the building. "Or the brother?"

James closes his eyes, but still sees, and for that matter, feels the red flash pulsating inside his corneas. "The--green shirt. That one."

"Oh. I don't know what his name is." Steve pauses after turning, taking in the entire empty parking lane.

James wishes he'd hurry up and pick one so he doesn't feel so assaulted by their randomly blinking time readers. Each flash from bright blue to dark grey may as well be another rock thrown at his head. A pebble. A boulder. Whichever size fate happens to pick up next.

"He's like, some kind of reserve linebacker?" Steve explains. "He's a senior and somehow thinks he's going to be a draft pick?" It's evident on his face that Steve's attempting to smooth over both his poor ability to parallel park and his lack of understanding the game of football.

Steve drives through the first couple of available spots before trying his best to see the muffler from inside the windshield. He wiggles the steering wheel to make the back tires move as well, then turns off the engine. "The brother works at the gym. You know, like at the desk? To swipe cards and stuff? And he's great. None of the treadmills squeak anymore. And it doesn't smell like WD-40. So much nicer to jog a mile or two without breathing in that motor oil stuff..."

James gets out of the car. He steps directly onto the curb, then uses the top of the door for stability before he's acquainted with being taller than the car. Balance. Perception. Fucking head injuries.

Steve jumps out, locks the car, and hustles to James's side. His arms are arranged at 90 degree bends, elbows at his waist and fists out in front as if they are, just now, going to take on one of those non-squeaky treadmills. "Ready?"

James might laugh. Or maybe cover his face with his palm and groan. He isn't going to endure a pep rally, no matter how gentle or authentic Steve makes it. An A for effort, but... James's head gives an especially sickening throb, and he doesn't want Steve to see him distorting his face as he scrapes backwashed coke off his tongue.

"You had to have that parking meter?" James asks, pointing at it and turning around once the wave of nausea has passed. The thing is bent, almost in half, with its head pointing diagonally skyward. The sidewalk has cracked at the meter's base, and the bright yellow 'error' message flashing on the screen reflects in even beats against the pavement.

"Well..." Steve shrugs. "The whole street is under that sign." He points. "'Business Hours Only.'"

"Business hours only..." James muses. "I'm pretty sure we're going to a business. During its operating hours."

"But--" Steve sputters. "Isn't that like 9 to 5 or something?"

"Only if you're a bank, a civilian contractor, or Dolly Parton," James says with a laugh. "Seriously, though. You're going to get towed."

Steve puffs up his chest. "Police don't patrol down here. You said so."

"Yeah, that's true." James is willing to go over it again. " They come when they're called."

"To put the bad guy in handcuffs and take him to the station so we can drive your sister home, yeah, I know..."

"No," James corrects. "The police come when they're called, and they clean up all the illegal activity in the area."

"But..." Steve's expression is stuck somewhere between bewildered and guilty. "I didn't break it. I didn't make damage to have free parking."

"Jesus fuck..." James blinks hard, then opens his eyes and pretends he can see all of Steve's face. "Ok. When you feed a meter, it counts it. Like the person in the lawn chair when you go vote? With the clicker?"

"Like, how many?"

"More like... proof you were there, and proof you didn't break the law."

"Break the law--?"

"Hold on," James takes a breath, hoping Steve will too. "Feed the meter, and your car is allowed to be there. Don't feed the meter, and the police are allowed to ticket you. Or boot you. Or tow you..."

"But you can't feed that meter," Steve points out, as if it isn't obvious. "It doesn't work. I couldn't feed it if I tried."

"No..." James changes his angle. He shades his eyes, though all that does is block out the pale moonlight, and scans the edge of roof. A black strip tops the outer wall of the Italian Restaurant. It gives the illusion of a cap atop the paintings of tomatoes and sliced loaves of bread, and giving way to a shadowy roof of pipes and air conditioning covers.

It takes James about three seconds to spot the camera. "Right there," he says. Then he grins and waves at it.

"Huh?" Steve looks at James as though he's lost his mind.

"Say 'hi' to the camera," James explains. "It's right there. See the bottle of olive oil? Straight up from the rim. It's black. See?"

Steve's eyes go wide. He waves awkwardly. "Is that, like, security?" he asks.

"It's a resource that could possibly be used if, say, a grey camry drove through three open metered spots to park purposefully by a broken meter." James shrugs. "If there was a question of whether the cop booting your car was acting appropriately. Or within the bounds of the law, at least."

James forces his face to stay still as he watches Steve's face turn red. Or maybe silvery green and gold, if he chooses to watch the aura instead of filling in the blanks with known reality.

"Um." Steve's voice comes out slow and unsure. Maybe a note higher than usual. "How, uh, long are we going to be inside?"

"No idea," James says. "I thought the plan was to watch and wing it."

"Do you think you could do a citizen's arrest while I pull the car around front?" Steve asks, suddenly bubbly with what can only be false hope. "Then we can take Tasha and run a lot faster."

James shrugs. A fast getaway could be nice. But James really doesn't feel like beating anyone up right now. Not tonight. He supposes he could do some bungled shouting about being a disabled veteran and sit on someone with his metal arm on full display.

But honestly, once safety was established, James was ready to let Tasha keep whatever goods she'd picked up. As long as she gave him a serving and agreed to wait to dose up until they got home so Steve could serve as a sitter.

Highs could do wonders on migraines. They'd mask the pain and the aura as some kind of dreamland, the blueprints for which haven't yet drifted down to earth. The oppressive rushing of his hearing aids as they attempt to amplify ambient noise would disappear, then be replaced by the quiet taps of Steve's fingers against his phone. The weight of Steve beside him would steady the bed and put the vertigo back in its place. When the nausea turned to vomiting, as it always did, Steve held the trash bin so James didn't have to lift his head from the pillow. He would just slide forward a couple of inches, grateful for his boyfriend and the random fresh-scented cleaning wipe at the bottom of the bin, and the chemists who formulated hallucinogens to begin with, for they must've somehow known the need for an opposite to nightmares.

It's little wonder Tasha uses so much. And very understandable why Steve doesn't.

"So." Steve takes a breath, glances one last time at his illegally parked car, and sets his eyes on James's. "We're doing this thing?"

Perfectly energetic and ready to work. Steve's normal resting pace isn't even resting. And not because he's ADHD, not because he's a micromanager who wants to do it all himself. It's the way he chooses to be. It's how he channels the flows and flexes and conductions and rhythms of heartbeat and hands cutting through water at the pool, behind the spitting washing machine, in James's mouth the time he'd choked on an ice cube...

Whether or not they make it home from school in time to watch the news and make fun of the weatherman with the tie that keeps turning into the radar picture and back again--It doesn't matter so much. It's fun. It's a distraction. Sometimes cuddly. Sometimes they poke each other and rasle around like two overgrown highschoolers. Sometimes they make eyes before the TV even warms up and proceed down the hall. That kind of love is, well, love, Surely.

But this, just now. This wide-eyed young man who is clearly choosing to risk a parking violation to help James take care of his little sister. This Steve, who still glows with innocence, not because he's dumb, but because he chooses to fight for the side of good. So what if he doesn't take James out to romantic dinners--and when the hell would they even have time for that? James is fully aware of the headache raking its uneven fingernails over the surface of his brain, catching in the ridges and painfully loosening knots of lucid thought.

"James?" Steve doesn't look back to the car this time. "Should we go?"

"Yes." James shoves his metal hand in his pocket and lets Steve have the other. "On with the mission."

[ruleof3bobby]

SAVE THE TIGER (1973) Grade: B

Jack Lemmon is excellent. The film doesn't have any big crazy scene, maybe that’s why no one mentions it. The story is told tightly.